Duelling
by electrickpurple
Summary: The Sheriff of Nottingham asks Gisborne to perform a task for him - one that will cost him dearly, as well as his unwitting adversary. Robin/Guy slash, M rated just in case! **NEW CHAPTER ADDED**
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I wrote this story with no intention of plagiarising the writers of the BBC Robin Hood series, or any previous Robin Hood adaptations. _

_Author's notes: I really wanted to try a new sort of pairing for my next fic, even though my POTC and HP fics are very dear to my heart... About 6 months ago I developed quite an unhealthy obsession with the Robin Hood series on the BBC. I've watched all three seasons, and have been pretty much in love with Guy of Gisborne's character from the off. But when the show ended after season 3, (SPOILER) with both Robin and Guy meeting an untimely end (why?), I was so terribly devastated that I had to honour their memories with a fic. Ok, perhaps I didn't honour their memories in a conventional way, but..._

_Hope you enjoy! Might be difficult for some to get into, as much of my characterisation is based on the actors' portrayals of these roles in the series. _

_Note: I do plan to write a sequel for this at some point in the future, hence why it isn't fully concluded. But when do I ever conclude a fic? –Slap on the wrists for me!– __**UPDATE: Chapter 2 is now up!**_

...

Sheriff Vaisey of Nottingham had been mulling over an idea. An idea so deliciously warped, that from the moment he had thought of it, he had been chuckling to himself for days. Eating, drinking, riding his horse, even on the privy, he had been unable to stop this idea from creeping up on him and, frankly, amusing the britches off of him. He was ready to boast that it was one of his best ideas to date – a plan that no one could foil, and one that would provide him with hilarity for years to come. The most delightful appeal of this idea was its involvement of a certain, sworn enemy of his.

The only serious nuisance in the Sheriff's life was a mere human being – one who persistently taunted him and prevented him from enjoying the full splendour of his tyranny. The individual in question took it upon himself to spoil Vaisey's fun at every turn, seeing himself as the 'People's Hero' and therefore somehow obliged to help the wretched folk of Nottingham to free themselves from poverty. Honestly: how _boring. _

How on earth could Vaisey fully enjoy the misery and wretchedness he inflicted on the populous if _Robin Hood _insisted in getting in the way every time?

The only weapon he seemed to be able to inflict successfully on the scourge of his existence was his second-in-command, Sir Guy of Gisborne. A furiously-dependable – and, well, just plain furious – ally in his fight against the outlaws, Vaisey knew that if any of his men were to ever succeed in skewering Hood's ugly head on a spike, it would be Gisborne. Hell, the man seemed to have no conscience. No conception of mercy. No grating sting of morality to guide his actions. In short: a man after Vaisey's own heart.

Gisborne would not let anything stand in the way of eradicating Robin Hood. And therein lay the delectable mastery of the Sheriff's plan.

On this particular day, Vaisey finally chose to reveal his scheme. He was sitting on his wooden throne in the grand dining hall of Nottingham Castle, picking food out of his teeth with the nail of his little finger, when an itch began to spread up through his body. It made its way along his arms, up his neck, and down his legs. He shifted and squirmed in his seat, grimacing with the effort of finding the source of his discomfort. Scratching fingernails seemed to do nothing, and all the while, images were fighting for attention at the back of his mind. When even his eyeballs began to itch, the Sheriff knew that his idea would simply not remain inside his wonderful brain a second longer. He began to laugh once more: a deep, guttural chuckle during which his prominent gold tooth glinted in the light from the candelabras. Leaning over the armrest of his seat to shout across the room, he addressed a tall figure standing at the back of the hall, half-shrouded in darkness.

"Gisborne – I wish to make an enquiry of your loyalty."

At the sound of the voice, a pair of slate-grey eyes opened. A barely audible sigh followed. Sir Guy of Gisborne could see Vaisey from where he stood, his eyelids hooded, arms folded across his broad chest, his head resting back against the wall behind him. While he was required to wait in the Sheriff's presence for unprecedented lengths of time, waiting for orders that may or may not ever come, he found that the cool stone really did help soothe his aching head.

Gisborne often contracted painful migraines when in the same room as Vaisey. Truth be told, he was hardly a social animal to begin with, but conversation with the Sheriff was a truly excruciating experience. The man seemed incapable of simple to-and-fro verbal exchanges, and instead preferred to fit as many offhand remarks, eccentric phrases and witty barbs into a sentence as possible – regardless of their relevance to the conversation. Gisborne preferred just to be quiet.

He was a tall, muscular man, pale-skinned but dark-eyed, and with hair black as a raven's wing. His attire was serviceable, but always tailored for combat: head-to-toe leather, with lashings of buckles and braces. All-in-all, he cast quite an intimidating figure. But he had never once succeeded in intimidating Vaisey. Lieutenant would have to do.

"My Lord, you know that my loyalty to you is absolute." He answered, a gruff rumble from the depths of his throat. His eyes met the Sheriff's, but his expression did not alter.

Vaisey rested one side of his face against an open palm, his eyes rolling skyward. He waved away Gisborne's words in the way someone might swat a fly.

"Yes, yes, alright. That's lovely. But specifically, Gisborne, if you'll _deign to indulge me_: do you promise to perform _any_ duty that I ask you to?" His eyes flashed wickedly.

"Yes..." Gisborne replied, after a dubious pause. If his suspicion had been aroused, his face betrayed nothing.

Vaisey grinned widely, "Oh good. Smashing. In that case, you won't shy away from the task I have in mind for you."

"Of course not, my Lord." Gisborne replied, and at this raised his chin a notch, bringing his hand to the hilt of his sword.

Vaisey found the whole thing rather touching. He wondered if Gisborne would have rallied so virulently to his aid if he had known what was coming. 

"You are well aware that despite our best efforts, we are yet to apprehend the outlaw Robin Hood. We have tried everything, and as yet..."

Vaisey continued rambling, but Gisborne had stopped listening shortly after the mention of the name. _Robin Hood. _The name caused a bitter coil of hatred to wrap itself around his stomach, to travel up his windpipe and scratch at his tongue. His every muscle and tendon ached to battle with the loathsome Hood, to see his death before his own eyes, inflicted by his own hand. They had been children together, rivals from a tender age, and years of suffering, war and corruption had driven an even deeper rift between them. Now, as men, they were on opposite sides of the law. Gisborne could not have been more elated at the turn of events. Now Hood was living in the forest, foraging like an animal with his band of dishevelled followers, come down so low from the grand Earl of Huntingdon, Lord of Locksley – and Gisborne had risen to the highest ranks of the Sheriff's men from near obscurity. In some, small ways, life could be sweet.

Vaisey had been listing their various failures for several minutes now, and when Gisborne's mind finally re-connected with the present, he realised that he had been gripping the hilt of his sword ferociously; his knuckles came away quite sore when he finally released his grip. Easing the pain from his stiff finger-joints, he turned his attention back to the Sheriff. He registered the sound of the man's voice just as he was finishing off a sentence:

"...only one thing that we have not yet tried."

"And what would that be?" Gisborne asked, his tone blunt and disinterested. He was well-accustomed to Vaisey's far-fetched schemes, and wasn't in the mood to tolerate another idea that would, in all likelihood, fail just as miserably as all the others.

The Sheriff stood now, his leather gloves squeaking slightly against the arms of his throne. His eyes, like two black pin-points, glimmered like beetle's wings, and his smile spread to a devilish degree. The time had finally come to reveal his plot to Gisborne. In his eagerness, Vaisey took on the appearance of a small child, clasping his hands tightly together and hopping a little on the spot. Quite a contrast to the balding, grey-bearded man that Gisborne could see from his position at the far side of the room. _'Pathetic.' _He thought, but his face was a blank page.

"Such a wonderful idea. You're going to love it, Gisborne, I know you will. Go on – try and guess what it is. Go on!"

Gisborne said nothing. He did, however, give the Sheriff a look that communicated his lack of patience – and his lack of interest in playing guessing games.

"By the gods, Gisborne, you are so in-cred-ib-ly _tedious_." Vaisey made a few bounding steps towards the other man, chuckling as he did so. When he was mere yards away from Gisborne, he uttered the word, "Seduction."

Gisborne prided himself on being impenetrable; a fortress of a man, immune to the frivolous emotions which guided so many peoples' lives. However, with this one word, his facade crumbled.

"_Seduction?_" He repeated, his lip curled in disgust.

"Yes, Gisborne." The Sheriff replied matter-of-factly. "It is no remarkable fact that Robin Hood is a man. A young man. A man with natural...urges." He seemed to have trouble forming the words, as if they left a bitter taste. "It seems that all our other plans have proved fruitless – if we cannot defeat Hood's _brain_, or his _body_, we will have to try and conquer...something else entirely. Now–"

"–Who on earthwould even consider seducing an outlaw?" Gisborne interrupted, curious now. He seemed to remember the Sheriff once threatening to make such an act a criminal offense.

Now Vaisey became very excited indeed. The word seemed ready to burst out of him, and as he leaned in closer to say it, Gisborne was hit by a rather unpleasant wave of foul-smelling breath. Perhaps this was why he was scowling long before Vaisey uttered the quiet answer:

"You."

The word hung in the air long after it had been spoken, the single syllable resonating for a lot longer than was natural. Vaisey was disappointed that he did not elicit an immediate reaction from the other man. But Gisborne's mind was whirring at a mile a minute behind his narrowed eyes. His chest was gripped by an ice-cold fist that he could only assume was fear. And his legs jammed rigid at the knee when he tried to turn away. He did not have to tolerate being insulted like this. But his anger and revulsion arrested his movements.

"You're very quiet, Gisborne." The Sheriff said softly, the rich hum of laughter behind his words.

"_My Lord,_" he finally replied, and his words clawed like sandpaper at his throat, "you are making a mockery of me."

"Not at all, my dear Gisborne - I'm quite serious. You see, there is–"

"–_NO._" Gisborne shouted, and a few of servants and guards turned their heads in surprise, "_No_ more talking – no more words from _you._" He pointed straight at Vaisey's face, wiping the smirk from it._ "_I won't listen to this. You think I'm some kind of fool. I won't stand here and be ridiculed. You have _NO RIGHT TO– _"

"Shh! Sh! Gisborne, please, less of the theatrics." Vaisey flapped his hands in a silencing motion, and led Gisborne off to a more secluded corner of the hall. "_Believe me,_" he continued in a whisper, "_I wouldn't suggest such a thing if I didn't truly believe it was our last resort. _I am asking you, Gisborne, because I know _you_, above all others, would not fail me."

"I don't seem to recall being asked." Gisborne muttered, his emotions a lot more controlled. "In any case, it is out of the question. Next to you there is no other man in the whole of _England _who detests Robin Hood more than I. I would rather swing from a noose than do what you require of me."

"Now, now, Gisborne, don't be so hasty. You know how easy it would be for me to provide you with that noose." Vaisey replied, and now there was not a hint of humour in his voice. "Besides, remember your promise...your _loyalty?_" He prompted, raising his eyebrows a notch as he did so.

Gisborne sighed, and lowered his eyes, his shoulders sagging.

"Just take a moment to think it over; it really is rather ingenious. If Hood can be successfully deceived into believing that his worst enemy – that's _you_, Gisborne – has feelings for him, just imagine the implications!" He looked over Gisborne's face, and seeing no enlightenment there (no emotion of any kind, truth be told), he continued,

"Alright, I'll help you. One: if Hood believes that you _love _him, will he find it easy to _kill_ you? A clue: no. Two: if Hood believes that you _love _him, will he see it coming when you_ knife_ him in the back? Another clue: no. Am I starting to convince you, Gisborne?"

"It would never work." Gisborne replied simply. "We have to credit the outlaw with a _shred_ of intelligence. I have loathed him since we were children and that is unlikely to change."

"Yes – Hood has intelligence. But you neglect his shortcomings, Gisborne." Vaisey was hitting his stride now. "What particular fault do we know Hood has in abundance? The drive that leads him to seek the affections of hundreds of impoverished peasants? _Vanity._" He smiled broadly, betraying his false tooth with a flash of metal._ "_He feels a need to gain the adoration of the dismal beings he helps. His foul little ego thrives on feeling that he is _loved and wanted._"

"By me?" Gisborne added, his voice still carrying a tone of scepticism. The thought was so horrifying that he had to keep releasing long breaths through his nose to keep his composure.

"That's the spirit – you're catching on." Vaisey replied, patting his lieutenant encouragingly on the shoulder. "Our Hood-y is so blissfully self-absorbed that he will have no difficulty in believing your claims. After all, how could you resist his wily charms, Gisborne? Why else have you tormented him all these years – followed him to the Holy Land and tried to steal away his beloved _Marian?_ Why have you tried so many times to foil his plans, and yet never succeeded? – See, even your incompetence has come in handy."

Gisborne had trouble focusing his attention for a second time – this time, because of the mention of another name. _Marian. _The love of his life. The woman claimed by the outlaw himself many years past, and now his one true friend – the woman he wanted to marry. She seemed too often to empathise with the outlaws and their allies, imploring Gisborne and the Sheriff to rethink their punishments or hold off decisions just long enough for their prisoners to accomplish an escape. But Gisborne believed that making her his wife would ensure her loyalty forever, rescue her from the temptation of dissent. And besides that, he longed for her more than any other woman he had ever known. _Hood would not have her._

"You needn't look so pensive, Gisborne. You don't have to do anything too _sordid_ - just enough to convince Hood that your feelings are genuine."

Gisborne didn't dare contemplate how much would be 'enough'. He glowered at the Sheriff through lowered eyelids, knowing now that this plan had been given a serious amount of thought, and no attempt at entreating on his part would change Vaisey's mind. Perhaps, if he performed this ultimate test of loyalty, he would finally gain some recognition, some praise for his endless toil. He allowed that hope to sprout and grow in his mind, let it wipe out all thoughts of the task ahead of him, and forced himself to believe that it might be true.

"We will trick Hood into believing that you are holding something very valuable of mine at Locksley Manor – give him all the information he needs to be able to steal it, give him all the free reign he needs to be able to break in undetected. And then you will–"

"–Yes, my Lord. I understand." Gisborne interrupted, averting his eyes and running a hand through his coarse black hair.

"You _are _a good sport, Gisborne. Now cheer up – there's a good man. You still have a week or so until the _big day..._" Vaisey grinned, clasping both of Gisborne's shoulders and giving him a rough little shake. Then he trotted off, rubbing his gloved hands together gleefully, leaving Gisborne to smoulder quietly in the half-darkness.

...

"People of Nottingham! Gather around!... Gather around, that's it, _gatheraround gatheraround gatheraround,_ COME ON HURRY UP!"

Sheriff Vaisey, ever the eloquent public speaker, was alerting the townsfolk of Nottingham to an important announcement. He stood in the courtyard of Nottingham Castle, at the base of the steps to the castle's main entrance. In front of him was a crowd of a hundred or so various townsfolk and peasants, and in the midst of them, the wooden gallows stood proud, rope nooses swaying lightly in the breeze. The Sheriff's lieutenant, Sir Guy of Gisborne, stood a little way behind him, arms folded, his piercing eyes scanning the crowd like those of a hovering bird of prey.

Some days since Vaisey's plot had first been revealed, the two men had arranged this public declaration, knowing that there would be a cat's chance in Hell of Robin Hood missing it. As a matter of fact, there were several castle guards dotted around the courtyard – 'scouts' if you will – given specific instructions to give the signal as soon as they recognised Hood or his men. It was imperative that Hood heard what was to be said, in order that the cog's of Vaisey's plan were put into motion.

Needless to say, it was the first time Gisborne could ever remember having a churning stomach in anticipation of facing Nottingham's people. He wasn't sure what sort of reaction the sight of Hood would invoke – but he hoped he would be able to exert some form of self-discipline.

Vaisey was ready to speak. He held up his arms in an effort to 'shush' the crowd, and motioned for the large wooden castle gates to be pushed closed. '_Don't want Hood-y or his men scampering away before they hear the big news.'_

"Now: my good people, my valued tax-paying public. You have been _very good_ to your Sheriff, always working hard, all of your payments on time–" His beady eyes flicked over the gathered faces, "–well, not _all _of you, but we put that right, didn't we?" A few shabby-looking members of the crowd shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the loss of all their possessions. Gisborne scowled at them.

"As you know: I'm a very reasonable man." No one muttered dissent, but the atmosphere was decidedly stale, "I have your best interests at heart. And that is why I have decided to reveal my latest plans to you!

"Every person on this earth, be they _Sheriff_, or _merchant, _or _peasant, _needs _water_ to survive. This is nothing new – but! Who provides this water? God? No. The clouds in the heavens? No. Your rivers, streams, wells? No. In actual fact: the _King _provides your water.

"Now, this may come as a surprise to some of you. You may have been under the false impression that water is a free commodity, a product of nature. As your Sheriff, I can inform you that you are _wrong._

"In light of this – this new – _revelation, _Prince John, who holds the throne for his warring brother, King Richard, wishes to inform you that your water is to be _commandeered._"

Now the crowd broke their silence. Many aired their confusion and disgust, some aimed insults at the Sheriff. Gisborne took a step forward, drew his sword, began to bark orders to the guards to calm them down. As he glared furiously at the rebellious crowd, the sea of angry faces glaring just as furiously right back at him. But, as his eyes scanned the many people who swarmed the courtyard, he was caught off guard by a lone figure. A man of medium height and light build, shrouded in a hooded cloak, his face half-obscured by shadow. Gisborne's stomach lurched uncomfortably as he realised: of all the people in the crowd, this man was the only one who was completely _motionless. _Just staring – not at him, but at Vaisey. No visible weapons, no discernible expression of loathing or revenge. Without even seeing his face clearly, Gisborne knew that it was _Robin Hood. _He staggered back slightly, his throat dry.

This wasn't like Gisborne. He never feared _anything_. Death was just the release of a life-long sinner. And yet he couldn't bring himself to meet the outlaw's eye.

He tried to distract himself, continuing to scan the crowd for recognisable figures. He saw several more hooded individuals, some joining in the yelling, others shifting quietly. But he could not be as sure of them as he had been sure of Hood.

"Robin Hood is here, my Lord." He whispered in Vaisey's ear, and then retreated back towards to castle entrance, replacing his sword in its scabbard. He took several deep breaths and reminded himself that none of the tasks he ever carried out for the Sheriff required him to feel or remember _anything._

Eventually, the crowd settled again. Vaisey had remained motionless and soundless throughout the uproar, his vision blank as if he were running through a story in his head. Now that he could hear himself once more, he continued speaking. A rotten tomato whizzed past his head when he first opened his mouth; he took no notice.

"Well, at least you've got that out of your system. Now you will hear my _solution _tothis problem.

"Prince John needs to redirect a certain quantity of Nottinghamshire's water to York, where a vast military operation is being amassed to ship to the Holy Land.

"Do not fear – not all of you will have dry wells. Prince John requests that a dam be built at the river mouth near Clun, meaning that only a small selection of villages – Clun, Nettlestone, _Locksley _– will lose their running water."

At this, the Sheriff couldn't resist a grin. Locksley was Hood's former home – the place he had once ruled as Lord, and the particular village that he always strived to protect. He would not let the people lose their water.

"This _does not mean_, however, that the people of these villages will die of thirst. In fact, I have a wonderful proposition for you!

"I will lower the taxes for Nettlestone, Locksley and Clun! ... _If _you agree to buy your barrels of water from the castle from now on."

The crowd were doubtful. Suspicious. Anxious. And somewhere in their midst, a lone, hooded figure muttered, _'Not a chance.'_

Vaisey didn't hear it, but he didn't have to. He knew Robin Hood would die before letting this happen. And that was why it was such a clever _sham._

...

Robin Hood watched the Sheriff turn and walk back into the castle. He was ashamed to feel his fingers itching to fire an arrow into the man's back.

He saw Gisborne linger behind, speak to a small group of guards, and then look into the crowd before jogging up the steps after the Sheriff. He wasn't worried – Gisborne hadn't seen him. There would be no chance that he or his men had been spotted in their cloaks; they hadn't even stood together. But in spite of this, he waited – waited for the majority of people to leave the courtyard, until the only ones left were a few stragglers and half a dozen-or-so men of varying sizes, all wearing their hoods. Then he moved, slowly, fluidly.

"We can't let this happen." He muttered to the first man he approached. A tall, wide, muscular man, at least two heads taller than Robin, his eyes were soft and brown as a deer's beneath his mass of whiskers and a decidedly gruff expression.

"We'll find a way to stop them, Robin." Little John replied, glancing around him warily. He didn't like to linger.

"Funny–" Another man – smaller, red-haired, with inquisitive eyes – added, "The way he announced his plans for the dam – like he didn't care who heard him. Maybe he thinks he won't be challenged?"

"And that's where we will prove him wrong, Much." Robin said, his blue eyes dangerously bright beneath his hood.

The men made to leave – Robin, Little John, Much, Allan-a-Dale, Will Scarlett and Djaq (who was, in actual fact, a woman). They walked alone or in pairs, interspersing themselves with the other townsfolk leaving the courtyard, their faces well-obscured by their cloaks. As they passed near the gates, Robin heard a pair of guards talking loudly. They were stood apart from the rest of the Sheriff's men, almost fully hidden from sight – but their voices were very clear, and carried on the breeze. Robin heard almost every word.

"Yes – that's what Sir Guy said... plans for the new dam..."

"Isn't he keeping them at Locksley Manor?... safe for the Sheriff until..."

As Robin passed through the gates, he took a deep breath. Anticipation frothed violently in his stomach, causing his thoughts to blur and his steps to quicken. Now he could make his plan of action. He plotted as he walked, his steps as quick as the turning of his mind.

'_We will steal those plans, hold them to ransom. Vaisey will never pay – he can't bear to lose money. When he refuses, we'll burn them. And then Prince John can take his dam and shove..."_

Just one problem – what if Vaisey _did _pay?

"_If he does – we can just use the money to bribe the dam workers. They 'forget' to patch it properly, it leaks...eventually, the wood splits... by then, the knights will be days away from sailing to the Holy Land – there won't be enough time to rebuild."_

There was no doubt about it – Robin would stop at no cost to prevent Vaisey from building his dam. Whilst he felt sympathy for anyone facing the horrors of the war – he had faced them himself – he could not let the people of Locksley suffer. Nor any of the people of Nottingham. As he and his men left the town for the safety of Sherwood Forest, he had already decided to break into Locksley Manor that very night.

...

"Wait here – I'm going in alone."

Robin and his men were standing at the edge of Sherwood Forest, under the cover of leaves and heavy darkness. Locksley Manor was only metres away. The only light came from a handful of candles in the servants' quarters. The house was sleeping.

"No – Robin, you can't do that." Allan piped up, filling the silence that none of the others wanted to break. "If Gisborne is holding those charts for the Sheriff, you can bet he'll have his own little battalion of men watching his back. He'll probably have one at the foot of his bed – bloody coward."

Robin was silent for several seconds, staring intently at the silhouette of his former Manor – in particular, the dark upstairs window that used to be his bedroom, the bedroom in which Gisborne now slept. Slowly, he turned.

"I know Gisborne, Allan. He's a fair fighter, but he's also a glory-hog. He won't let twenty of the Sheriff's guards kill me when he could have the pleasure of doing it himself.

"He'll be armed – but he'll be alone. I am certain of it."

"I wouldn't be so sure, Robin." Djaq suddenly spoke up, her deep brown eyes full of knowledge. Her voice rolled with the rich tones of her Saracen accent. "The Sheriff took no precautions today – he announced his plans for the entire _town _to hear. He knows that nothing he ever does goes unnoticed by us – and he will know that you were in the crowd this morning. He would be a fool not to have those plans fully guarded."

"You're forgetting, Djaq: he doesn't know that I overheard those guards. They were the only ones who discussed _where _the plans were being kept – and they said so only _after_ the Sheriff had left. He will think that their location is a well-kept secret, expecting us only to intervene when the building of the dam begins. So we have the element of surprise. Gisborne will not be suspecting an ambush tonight – and if I go in _alone_, he won't even realise what's happening until it's too late."

Djaq could hardly argue with such determination. No one did. They watched with baited breath as Robin pulled up the hood of his cloak, slipped silently out of the trees and crept his way towards the soundless Locksley Manor.

...

Gisborne wasn't sleeping. That would have been impossible. It would have been torture.

He was, however, laid in Robin Hood's former bed, covered in a light muslin sheet. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was heavy. But he had forced his eyes closed, and forced the pace of his breathing to lessen. He couldn't find sleep. Even in the complete darkness of the space behind his eyelids, shapes loomed out at him. An invisible force pinned him to his mattress, seizing his muscles and his mind with vile thoughts of what he was about to say, what he was about to _do_.

He didn't hear Robin approach the house; didn't hear him scaling the outer wall and slipping in through the bedroom window. Robin crept around the room for several moments before Gisborne even realised he was there.

He could _smell _outlaw.

His eyelids clicked open, and he blinked into the darkness, a cold clamp around his heart.

The room materialised before him as a collection of silhouettes and shapes, some instantly recognisable, some not – and one which was moving.

As the moon peered from behind the clouds, sending a pale beam of light through the open window, Gisborne discerned the shape of Robin Hood; the outlaw had his back to him, rifling through a chest of drawers, but he recognised the light, wiry frame, the billowing peak of a hood, and the rigid arc of a wooden Saracen bow beneath the man's arm.

In that moment, Gisborne couldn't move. He couldn't think. He didn't want to speak, fearful of the words that would leave him. He watched Hood moving furtively in the darkness and wished he would just disappear, preventing him from doing the duty he knew he would rather die than perform.

The outlaw was having little success, and Gisborne knew that if he stayed where he was, kept silent, let Hood leave, he would be able to continue his life in much the same way – no regrets.

However, there would be no peace for him if the Sheriff found out he had done nothing. If Gisborne failed, the Sheriff would never let him forget it. And Gisborne knew – he couldn't fail. Somewhere, something in the back of his mind would forbid him to fail. He had come so far, clawed his way up to the noble position he held, and this one, essential test would secure his position for good.

It would not be so difficult. As long as he _did not let himself think – did not let himself feel a thing._

"Light a candle why don't you, Hood? It might help your search." His voice boomed louder than he had expected in the stillness; he felt a stab of satisfaction when the outlaw flinched and froze in his movements.

"So good of you to join me, Gisborne... I didn't think anything short of a rampaging herd of cattle would wake you." Hood replied, without turning to the bed. He did, however, light a candle. When the room slowly flooded in an orange glow, Gisborne sat up in the bed, letting the muslin sheet tumble down to reveal his bare chest.

"What are you doing here? Suicide wish?" He asked, managing an arrogant smirk despite the nausea in his stomach.

Hood turned to face him now. His eyes never left Gisborne's, and they were so bright – so determined, so unclouded by fear. He didn't notice that Guy wasn't wearing a nightshirt.

Gisborne's breathing halted for a moment when he saw him fully – the face he had known from childhood, the face that he now had to pretend to love. He couldn't imagine ever loving someone who was so dishevelled, so unclean, so _feral_. The thought of this made him chuckle in his head and gave him confidence.

"Don't be dim, Gisborne. You must know why I'm here."

"Well, I _think_ I do." Gisborne replied, shifting a little beneath the covers, "But you may surprise me yet." And with this, he got up from the bed. The covers slipped over his skin, bare skin, and revealed him to be completely naked. His abdomen felt tight – he wasn't sure how to feel about letting Hood see him naked, or whether he should even care.

Robin remained silent. His eyes slid over Gisborne's body before any instruction otherwise from his brain, and the registered thoughts were these: '_Pale skin. Dark hair. Lots of hair. In lots of places. No – don't want to look there. Long legs. Strong arms. His hands are fists. He looks awkward...and cold.'_

"Put some _clothes on_, Gisborne." He eventually said, his tone disapproving, once his eyes were firmly fixed on the other man's face. He looked towards the bedroom door, and began to back up to it, momentarily forgetting anything about charts.

"You're not going anywhere, Hood." Gisborne barked, and Robin stopped moving – he remembered the charts, now, and remembered that a naked Gisborne should not distract him from them.

Gisborne pulled on a pair of black breeches, pulling his sword from behind the bedstead when Hood's guard was down. He held it in front of him, the tip pointed towards the ceiling, and spoke through the blade,

"As soon as you open that door, my men will come running."

"A handful of the Sheriff's guards? Worthless. Come on, Gisborne, at least _try _to intimidate me."

"Well, you _are _alone. Where is the Merry Band tonight, Hood?"

"They aren't needed here. They know that I could defeat you with a single blow." Robin picked up his bow, pulled out an arrow, and pointed it at the space between Gisborne's eyes – all before Gisborne could even blink.

Focusing his attention on Hood's determined face, Gisborne let out a long, deep laugh. Hood's shoulders bristled.

"I'd like to see you try..." Gisborne replied, his smile a little too mischievous, his tone a little too laissez-faire for a man so highly-strung, faced with the point of an arrow.

He took a step forward. Robin didn't move.

He took another step. Robin's fingers tightened around the string of the bow.

He took another step. Robin's pupils dilated briefly, before focusing into needle-points. Lowering his sword, Gisborne pressed the pointed tip against the fleshy part of Robin's abdomen.

"I've have often dreamed of this moment, Hood. You and I, alone. How it would feel to overpower you, when you were completely at my mercy. Just like you are now."

His voice was so soft that Robin had difficulty recognising it. He knew Gisborne was threatening him, but it wasn't right. Somehow, it felt like suggestion.

Gisborne felt sick. But he couldn't turn back now.

"You have no mercy." Robin replied, letting his arrow slide down to point between the other man's ribs.

Gisborne chuckled again, "That is what you choose to believe, Hood. But I won't admit to it. Perhaps you don't know me as well as you'd like to think."

This wasn't right. Gisborne was usually _proud_ of being merciless. Robin couldn't put his finger on it, but somethingabout this man was different tonight... he wasn't going to change his tactics though, or his mood.

"That is very doubtful. I know everything I need to about you, Gisborne.

"The mere fact that you are foolish enough to let me stand in your bedroom...my bedroom, truth be told – for several minutes, without killing me, without even calling your men, says more about the kind of man you are than I'll ever need to hear from your own mouth. You're weak. And you love to gloat."

Now Robin recognised the irritation on Gisborne's face. Whatever the game he was trying to play, he could not stand being insulted by his worst enemy. His grey eyes glimmered angrily, and he increased the pressure of the tip of his sword against Robin's stomach. The pain didn't outweigh the pleasure of victory; Robin kept his gaze steady, and smiled in the face of a fight.

However, as quickly as the flush of rage had appeared, it was gone. Gisborne released his breath quietly and let a calm pass over his features.

"Not necessarily: perhaps I'd just rather we were alone." He tilted his head forward to stare at Hood from beneath lowered eyelids. A smile just plucked at the corners of his mouth.

Robin was confused. This conversation was not going the way it should. He had been talking to Gisborne for far longer than he had intended; hadn't even got round to asking about the charts yet. Now he doubted that they were even in this room at all – even though Gisborne would usually want them as near to him as possible. Maybe that was the explanation for his odd behaviour – maybe he was trying to put Robin off the scent.

Robin lowered his bow a fraction, releasing the tension on the arrow. Maybe, if he played Gisborne at his own, strange game, he might get somewhere.

As soon as he lowered the bow, however, Gisborne moved like a flash. He knocked the bow from Robin's hand with a swift flick of his sword, and then pressed the metal once again to the outlaw's stomach, changing his angle slightly this time so that it pinched the skin.

Guy was exerting all the willpower he could not to plunge the blade straight into his enemy's gut.

With a slight groan of discomfort, Robin knocked the sword away with the back of his hand. The tip nicked the skin of his stomach as it swung away, and Robin felt the warm sting.

"Your attempts at intimidation won't work with me, Gisborne. This is getting a little dull. All I want are the Sheriff's charts."

Gisborne looked thoughtful for several seconds. Then he let his sword hang by his side, and tilted his head sideways a little to look into Robin's eyes.

Robin didn't like the look. And he disliked the silence even more.

"Are you sure that's... all you want?" Gisborne asked, and his tone was so unlike anything that Robin had ever heard from the man's lips that he barely even heard the question, before...

Gisborne closed the gap between them with a certain urgency, a certain ferocity of movement that may have betrayed his discomfort, had Robin had time to notice.

As it was, all he really noticed was a sudden pressure and the taste of Gisborne's saliva.

Gisborne's kiss was insistent, swift but powerful, and Robin's lips reciprocated the pressure before he had even had time to realise what was happening.

Then, as soon as their bodies had come together, Gisborne's hand gripping the hair at the back of Robin's head, it was too much. Robin slid his arms up between their chests and pushed Gisborne away with as much strength as he could muster. As he watched the other man stumble backwards, hitting one of the pillars of the four-poster bed, he couldn't fully comprehend what had just happened. He did know, however, that he was suddenly breathless, for a reason he couldn't fathom.

Gisborne hit the upright beam with a dull thud, and groaned softly, his knees buckling. He licked his lips, tasted Robin Hood there, and then looked across the room at the man himself, seeing an uneasy mixture of loathing and curiosity in his eyes. But Gisborne was elated. He had passed his test. He knew now that he could carry out his task without vomiting. He was feeling strangely powerful.

Hood was still stricken to the spot, his mouth half-open. Gisborne thought he looked completely ludicrous. He wondered how the outlaw would act next – whether he had finally found a way to silence him.

Robin began to turn away. The surface of his skin had gone cold; he couldn't seem to remember what was keeping him in the room. As he moved towards the door, he managed to speak.

"I don't know what's gotten into you, Gisborne, but I never thought you would stoop so low." He put his hand to the latch, the other gripping the collar of his hood, ready to disguise his identity before he fled through the house. Before opening the door, he remembered one last thing:

"I will be back for those charts. And next time...I think I will wait until you aren't here..." He looked obviously disturbed as he said this.

"Robin..."

Gisborne's voice still carried that strange note. Robin's hand paused on the latch, and he turned his head to look at Gisborne without moving away from the door.

"Don't leave." Gisborne commanded, moving a little way towards Robin. His shoulders were hunched and his eyes were downcast.

The word 'vulnerable' flashed into Robin's mind, and he didn't know how he should react.

He eventually decided that fulfilling Gisborne's request might provide him some well-needed answers, and that answers were what he wanted most. So he turned away from the door, folded his arms over his chest, and looked at Gisborne in a completely calculating way.

"What game are you playing, Gisborne?" He asked, his voice steady, his stare firm.

Gisborne knew that his next words, his next movements, would be crucial. Under such a level of pressure, he was actually rather impressed that he could force tears into his eyes – this, from a man that was rarely moved past the occasional shrug or grunt.

"Forgive me..." He bowed his head, hearing his voice break and thinking of nothing, watching his vision swim before him and smelling the salt in his tears without a single pang of sadness in his chest. All he felt was an iron-clad confidence. He wouldtriumph over Hood at last.

In any other instance, Robin would have felt an obscure sense of pride to see Gisborne weep. In any other instance, he felt nothing towards the man except hate. Now he felt pity. He couldn't just leave after seeing Gisborne like this, his dark eyes so troubled, his emotions so completely exposed. He needed to know the reason for the man's behaviour, and secretly hoped that he could somehow use it to his advantage. He took a few steps back into the room, forcing himself to keep the charts at the back of his mind when he considered Gisborne's explanation.

Gisborne saw Robin approach, and tried his hardest not to smirk.

This was the big moment. And he had to get it right.

"I _hate _you." He began, his voice unsteady in his throat, "Hate you so much that I have contemplated nothing else but your slow, painful demise for years. I have dreamed of your death. I see you, your downfall, played over and over in my mind. But... recently... I..." He turned half away from Robin, and put his face in his hands. When he spoke again, his voice was obscured, leaking muffled through the spaces between his fingers, "I don't know how to _stop. _You are _always _on my mind. I can't think of anything else but you. When I close my eyes I see your face."

He rubbed his temples with his fingertips, and then looked over at Robin. The outlaw's face was an empty wall. But Gisborne knew he was taking in every word, every syllable.

"I _used _to think of nothing but your death. But now, when you creep into my head, I..."

He swallowed back more crocodile tears, "...It tears me apart to speak of this, Hood. I can't bear to look at you." He turned his head and flinched like a wounded beast.

"But I know that, as soon as you leave, you will be in my thoughts. _I hate you with a passion, Robin Hood."_ He walked towards Robin, his hands clenched into fists, "But sometimes... I'm not sure if that is the only..._passion..._I feel.."

And with this, his looked so deeply into Robin's eyes that, were he not completely desensitised to anything but the rate of his own breathing, he would believe he was looking into the outlaw's very soul. Despite his detached sense of triumph, he suddenly became aware of the trembling of his legs. He was astounded by the power of his own deception over his body.

Robin's thoughts were dulled by shock. He would have yelled out, implored Gisborne to stop before he embarrassed himself – if he were not so horribly latched onto the man's every word. Now, in the stifling silence left by Gisborne's confession, staring into the deep pits of the other man's pupils, he knew he should _do _something, but couldn't arrange his thoughts.

Eventually, the cogs in his mind began to turn.

"What are you saying, Gisborne? That you no longer wish to kill me? I could never believe that was possible."

"I think I have said enough, Hood." Gisborne looked very tired, all his effort exerted by his confession, and keeping his emotions under control.

Robin looked at him for a long while. He began to consider the implications of what Gisborne had said. And then realisation thundered down on him like a ton of bricks.

"You don't have the charts, do you, Gisborne?... I saw you talking to the Sheriff's guards this morning–"

Gisborne was feared discovery for a brief moment. And then he realised where Hood's thoughts were taking him.

"–you _asked _them to discuss where the plans were being kept, loud enough for me to hear, didn't you? You knew I would come looking for them. And so you thought you'd lure me here...to try...to try to..."

Gisborne sighed deeply, covering his face with his hand to disguise a victorious smile. "You're right, Hood. I knew you would come alone – so stubborn..." He risked a smile for the outlaw to see, and the shock on his face was incredibly satisfying.

Robin straightened considerably, the revelation startling to him. He watched Gisborne turn to look at him, smiling eerily, and realised he could no longer be prepared for anything the man would say to him ever again.

"Where are they?" He asked, edgy now, not wanting to give Gisborne any more reason to try his luck. "...Are they even here?" The thought of such a prospect was incredibly galling.

Perhaps he really had been too stubborn; too sure that everything would go to plan. Now he would be sure never to presume that he had the measure of Gisborne.

"Patience, Hood – I will tell you where they are, and allow you to take them unhindered." Gisborne raised his eyebrows suggestively. "If..." The implication hung heavy in the air, and Gisborne's charade was so seamless that it didn't even faze him anymore.

Robin had steeled himself for such a response, and was ready with a swift reply, "Not a chance, Gisborne. I couldn't endure it. I _hate _you!" He cried emphatically, eyes wide and imploring as if hoping the man would eventually see sense, "I hate everything you are, everything you stand for." He couldn't meet the other man's eye as he added, "And I am not readily disposed to sleeping with men."

Gisborne managed to look hurt, for a moment, "I do not ask you to like me, Hood. And you do not have to... sleep with me." He had managed well so far, but these words troubled him and threatened to break his stony facade. He sighed, and the tension passed. "All I ask, is for..."

He swallowed deeply, allowing his stomach to settle. Not much longer. The ordeal would soon be over,

"All I ask, is for one kiss. A kiss with feeling." The words were impeccably chosen, delivered for maximum impact. Gisborne wondered if the Sheriff would ever appreciate these sacrifices of character he had made, these sacrifices of honour.

"Kiss me...like you would kiss _Marian._"

It was wrong of Gisborne to drag her into this. She did not deserve to have her name sullied in such a conversation. But he knew that mentioning her was one sure way to get Hood's attention. The feud between them for her affections was a long-standing one, and the slightest remark about her would elicit an infuriated reaction from Hood which he otherwise managed to keep firmly restrained.

In this instance, however, there was no such fury from Hood – only disgust. Clearly, he was more than deeply offended by Gisborne's advances. In spite of this, he failed to make any comment, nor to move a limb.

Gisborne took this to be surrender.

He took two steps forward, until he was at a distance to be able to touch Hood with a reach of his arm. He brushed his hand up slowly against the side of the outlaw's body, before stretching out his fingers and using them to grip his waist. Hood's body was as hard and wiry as it had always appeared; Gisborne felt only muscle beneath the fabric of his smock. _'No wonder he is such an agile fighter.'_ Using his grip as an anchor, for his legs seemed reluctant to move, he pulled himself up against the outlaw, his eyelids half-closed so as to avoid having to look into the other man's eyes. He felt several separate pressure-points of contact between them, but didn't dare to identify them. His lips parted slightly with the effort of regulating his breathing. He began to feel overwhelmingly warm, and loose strands of black hair clung damply to his forehead.

Robin winced when Gisborne touched him. The man's grip was hard, relentless – not the caress of a lover, though he had not expected such. Despite only one of Gisborne's hands gripping him, he felt as if any movement from that moment forward would be impossible, as if his bones were in a vice. Gisborne pressed his body against his, and Robin shut his eyes tighter, bit his lower lip, and swallowed hard. He managed to keep his mind blank until he felt Gisborne's hot breath on his face. Then he looked up into the other man's deep grey eyes and felt a pure stab of fear for the first time in years. As he shifted his body he became piercingly aware of the knots of muscle in Gisborne's thighs.

"If this is just some kind of sick, twisted ploy, Gisborne, my men will–" He began, his voice seriously lacking in the self-assurance it needed.

"Just be quiet, for once in your sorry existence."

It felt a little like being doused in ice cold water. When Gisborne grabbed the back of Hood's head and dragged their lips together, his ribs seemed to cramp around his lungs, creating an abrasive tightness in his chest which threatened to stop his breathing.

He made himself open his mouth as they made contact, his tongue forcing its entry between Hood's lips. Their tongues chafed against each other to an uncomfortable degree, and in his conflict between duty and hatred, Gisborne bit down on Hood's lower lip several times.

He managed to disguise groans of disgust as distinctly powerful moans of pleasure – moans which increased significantly in volume whenever he felt Hood's pelvic bones make contact with his own.

The thought of bruising him helped to ease his mind; he dragged his hands across any available surface of Hood's body: across his back, up against his ribs, through his hair, up his arms.

He was feigning the passionate embraces he had shared with countless women, but with an added ferocity that betrayed his true loathing of the outlaw.

As it was, Robin was not in the right mind to perceive this.

He had never kissed a man before this night, and the first thing he noted in this second clash was the roughness of Gisborne's stubble. Then he noticed the now-familiar taste of the other man's saliva, and then the pressure from the flesh of his lips. He almost gagged when Gisborne's tongue urged itself into his mouth, and then struggled to manoeuvre his own so that he would not be choked to death. When Gisborne bit his lip, Robin's cries and curses of pain were muffled by the other man's mouth.

Any efforts to pull away were futile – Gisborne's roving hands saw to that. Robin found himself reciprocating the action in an effort purely to save himself from some serious bruising.

He was surprised to feel the sheer expanse of back muscle that Gisborne possessed, as well as to feel the numerous scars that littered his bare arms and chest.

All in all, it was an experience which, to Robin, was perversely fascinating – he still wasn't entirely sure if he believed Gisborne's claims, but the violence and urgency of his embrace was beginning to convince him. Every time their hips collided, Gisborne seemed to have an extreme reaction; Robin felt the jolts in Gisborne's muscles echo out through his own.

He found his thoughts flooded with memories of every violent skirmish the two of them had shared in the past: the stark contrast between these encounters – blood, grit, dust, the sharp bitter sting of metal and the abrasive ferocity of punches – and what was happening now was confounding. And yet – he could not seem to separate the two contrasts completely. Now, those memories which had seemed so normal, so commonplace and congruent with the natural order of things were tainted with new suspicions.

He wondered if Gisborne was thinking of similar things – or whether he preferred to keep his mind blank at such moments.

In actual fact – Gisborne's mind was far from blank. Like Robin, he was otherwise distracted from the physicality of the kiss. But his thought processes were not so methodical. He went frenetically from notion to abstract notion, in an effort to calm himself: from listing the numerous ways he would torture Hood once he was captured, to creating an elaborate sequence of events that would ensue as a result of him finally becoming a Sheriff himself. It helped a little. After a while, he manage to successfully blot out the nauseating feeling of Hood stroking his scars.

'_You inflicted most of those, you lice-riddled cur.' _His bitter thoughts raged on.

Ultimately, though, his fear of vulnerability got the better of him. When his paranoia and insecurity threatened to suffocate him entirely, he could no longer bear the proximity between him and his enemy. He broke the kiss as urgently as it had begun, blood rushing in his ears, his breathing so heavy that his vision began to blur. It was a while before he realised that he was still looking into Hood's face – the man's lips were chafed raw.

It was sickeningly pleasing to Gisborne to see that even his kisses could injure.

Robin couldn't quite appreciate his release from the kiss – because Gisborne hadn't quite let go of him yet. He believed that Gisborne wasn't in the presence of mind to realise this; he gripped Robin around the small of his back with both hands, almost propping himself upright, and the skin at the base of his neck was flushed a deep colour. When his stupefaction at the frenzy of the kiss had passed, Robin steadily became aware of how painfully-hard the other man's grip actually was.

"Ow- Gisborne..." He grunted, trying to pry himself free.

Perhaps the sound of his voice was the cue the other man needed. At the sound of it, Gisborne let go of him – rather too abruptly. And Robin staggered backwards, losing his balance...

He struck a rack of Gisborne's swords rather sharply with his right leg, causing the whole thing to topple to the floor with a startling crash.

Both men winced simultaneously. There was a few moments' silent void. And then, very quickly, both of them became acutely aware that things were about to become a little problematic. The clattering and stirring of Gisborne's men downstairs, coupled with an upsurge of noise from the trees outside and a band of raised voices, created an unexpectedly-energetic reaction from Robin Hood. It was most certainly time to leave.

Picking up his bow and discarded arrow from the ground, he once again aimed them between Gisborne's ribs. It seemed strange to him now, as though the action had lost all meaning and relevance.

"I kept up my side of the bargain, Gisborne. Give me the charts." He ordered – detached, even absent-minded.

Gisborne betrayed nothing. But inside, he felt bizarrely euphoric. Now for the master stroke: the vital crux of his and Vaisey's plan. He tilted his head slowly, like a crow sizing up leftover carrion. He narrowed his eyes slightly, and spoke:

"They aren't here. They're inside the vault at Nottingham Castle."

At last, a gratifying flash of anger in Hood's eyes.

"You lied – Gisborne, you spineless dog!"

When he saw the man's fingers tighten around the string of the bow, Gisborne halted him with a subtle lifting of his hand.

"No..." He countered, enjoying a deep twist of pleasure in his gut: the satisfaction of power and manipulation, "I said I would tell you where they were, and let you take them unhindered. And I have held fast to my word." A smile alighted across his lips.

"Come to the castle, tomorrow night. Come alone, meet me at the vault after curfew. I will give you the charts."

Robin pursed his lips suspiciously – Gisborne felt a spike of bewildering emotion on seeing that his mark upon them remained.

"This had better not be another deception, Gisborne. Or you know what I will do to you."

"Oh, you have my word, Hood. Only imagine what the _Sheriff _would do to me if he knew of our bargain..." He countered, letting this implication of personal sacrifice hang in the air for Hood to latch on to.

"I will be waiting, tomorrow night, with your precious charts." He lifted his chin fractionally, and with a suggestively-raised eyebrow, muttered, "Try not to be late..."

Robin opened his mouth to say more. He couldn't settle into this negotiation, couldn't get his head around a world where Gisborne was an accomplice – where Gisborne was _attracted _to him. Trying to piece his thoughts together felt like wading through a mire.

Suddenly, there came cries from downstairs – Gisborne's men were rallying. A knock came at the door:

"Sir Guy? There are men surrounding the property, my Lord!" A voice shouted through.

"Wait downstairs!" Gisborne barked. He turned to Hood, wondering if perhaps he should just cut his losses now, run the man through and have done with it. His men would easily dispatch the rest of the outlaws then...

But Robin was already climbing out of Gisborne's bedroom window.

"I suppose you do owe me _some _form of compensation –" He began, meeting Gisborne's exasperated expression, "– I mean: I'm all for exploration, and satisfying curiosity. But really, Gisborne – wait for some level of _consent _next time, yes?"

Gisborne couldn't be entirely sure what he saw lingering on the outlaw's expression as he dropped over the other side of the window ledge, out of sight. But Hood's absence left him infuriatingly-dissatisfied. He growled an order to his men, ensuring that the Sheriff would hear of his success hitherto, but could not feel the deep pleasure that this triumph should have allowed him.

Climbing back into bed, feeling the cool, crisp friction of the bed sheets against his bare skin, he struggled to find comfort. His mind was highly agitated, overcrowded with thoughts of Robin Hood. Even the thought that he would soon be sleeping in the outlaw's former bed sent a wave of nausea over him that would have formerly been much easier to ignore. He wrapped his pillow roughly around his head, and lapsed reluctantly into the realms of slumber with his fingers pressed tentatively to his lips.

...

Robin had returned to the shelter of the forest with his mind all a-whirl. He knew that the events of this night would be forever etched onto his memory, and this disturbed him beyond all reason. Whilst he was having difficulty coming to terms with Gisborne's declaration, he also couldn't help but feel that their rendezvous tomorrow held an unforeseen danger, beyond any threat of capture or death. He felt that some deeply-entrenched intuition within him was warning him – that should he meet with Gisborne tomorrow, he would not be able to escape an impending misfortune.

As he relayed Gisborne's instructions to his men, however (omitting the most scandalous details), it seemed that he had already decided that he had no choice but to oblige the other man's wishes.

"What's in it for him?" Allan asked impulsively, voicing everyone's concern in his usual, direct manner.

Robin couldn't give him a direct answer, and he began to feel implicit in Gisborne's sordid ploy. He replied as frankly as possible: "The only thing he ever desires, I should imagine: Glory. Though how he will acquire it I don't know." He stared at the dubious faces surrounding him and gave a sharp sigh, "I know, it sounds like a trap. But –"

"–Robin... It _is _a trap! How could you possibly think otherwise?" John barked, his eyes intense with a ferocious contempt.

"I just... I think it will be different this time. I think Gisborne will surprise us."

"Surprise us? How?" Much asked, smirking slightly.

"I don't know. I just believe that he has more of a capability to surprise than we have ever credited him for." Robin shifted uncomfortably, avoiding the quizzical stares of his companions. He was a doggedly-determined man. And he couldn't let such an opportunity pass him by, just because the danger of the situation outweighed the thrill of the risk.

He felt this self-same thrill as he lay in his hammock a few hours later, staring up at the stars and wondering what his sworn enemy was thinking at that exact same moment, laid beneath the exact same stars. He couldn't help but wonder if Gisborne was thinking of him.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer:__ I wrote this story with no intention of plagiarising the writers of the BBC Robin Hood series, or any previous Robin Hood adaptations._

_Author's notes: Firstly, I want to thank each and everyone who reviewed and emailed to tell me how much they enjoyed the first chapter, and how eager you were for the next instalment! – I would have to agree with many of you, that the Robin/Guy genre is one that hasn't really taken off on the site as much as many others, which is a great shame! But your compliments and requests for a sequel have really helped me along, so many thanks._

_Again, as seems to be a pattern with my sequels, this has taken almost a year! I have to admit that I've got lots of other writing/academic projects which take up a lot of my time, so I haven't been writing this religiously, just as and when I can. But I hope it's a suitable continuation of the story, and that it explores some things which you might have been hoping for! I won't spoil it before you get a chance to read on, but this one goes in quite a dark direction – more so than I might have originally intended! But it just seemed like the way to go. I welcome any comments/critique as ever, and am overwhelmingly grateful for the lovely feedback that I continue to receive. Aw, shucks you guys :3_

_..._

The sound echoed sinuously through corridors, bounded off of smooth stone and panelled wood. It reached the ears of those stood on the battlements of Nottingham Castle, when it had in fact originated from the Great Hall, some two-hundred feet away. The sound was curiously high in pitch, though rich and resonating. It was Sheriff Vaisey's laughter. And what an ominous sound it was. Unlike the laughter of any decent, well-meaning person, it set every guard in the castle on edge, as if they were witnessing the beginnings of a torrential thunderstorm, just before the first clap of thunder.

Tracing the sound to its origins, one would find Vaisey sat in his large, solid wooden throne – or rather slumped – his feet resting on the long dining table in front of him, one booted ankle crossed over the other. His hands gripped the arms of the grand seat for stability, as if he would roll right off it with laughter if he weren't able to prop himself up. Tears of mirth were beginning to well in his eyes, and his entire upper body was wracked with convulsions of hilarity.

The dining table in the Great Hall could comfortably accommodate around fifty persons – fifty _nobles_, to be precise. Needless to say, it stretched almost the entire length of the room. At the opposite end, nearest the grand double-doorway, stood another lone figure, which to Vaisey was only distinguishable by the abundance of black cloth adorning his tall stature. The face was shielded, hung in humiliation – or embarrassment, as the Sheriff hoped. But he would doubtless have felt his laughter stick in his throat had the veiled gaze met his own. For Sir Guy of Gisborne was far from amused. In fact, he was furious. His leather-clad hands balled into fists by his sides, and he felt the potential of the weapon at his belt as a dull, aching heat.

'_If I had known that the purpose of my every visit to this room was to simply listen to you _laugh_, my lord, I would certainly have cut out your tongue _months___ago...'_

The words were ready to force themselves from his lips, but he bit them back. _'Let the old fool laugh,' _he told himself. Every stab of humiliation on his part brought him an inch closer to toppling Vaisey from his _very _precarious position of power.

The Sheriff wiped the stray tears from his face and sat up a little in his chair, resting his elbows on his thighs and regarding Gisborne with a dangerous curiosity. The man had regaled to him the previous night's events, and the report had given him more amusement than any travelling show or jester's trickery he had ever seen. To know that his own ingenious planning had forced two sworn enemies into a carnal fracas with each other was an uncommonly delightful notion to him – all the more so for one of them being his most aggravating opponent, and the other being his much-maligned second-in-command. It was like he was some form of alchemist, combining two opposing elements and sitting back to watch the chaos and destruction that followed. With this pleasing concept embedded gleefully in his mind, he let the remains of his laughter fade from his throat and prepared to engage the next phase of his plan. First objective: get Gisborne to cheer up. The man was so very difficult to talk to when he was in one of his sissy-boy sulks. Vaisey despaired of the moaning whelp at times, he really did.

"Forgive me, Gisborne, forgive me. You do tell the funniest stories," he chuckled, before trying again to gain composure. Straight-faced, he continued, "You have done well, done everything I asked of you. And for that...well, I am proud. _Next, –"_

Gisborne looked up fractionally, the surprise registering in the slight dilation of his pupils, but nowhere else. _Proud? Vaisey? _He would hardly have believed it, had the words not come from the man's own lips. But he wasn't fooled. The aging megalomaniac was simply trying to butter him up. The inevitable 'bottom line' was coming, he knew that for certain. Gisborne steeled himself for what was sure to be a distinctly unpleasant ordeal: the next stage of Vaisey's plan.

"– you must, obviously, fulfil your promise to me – _vis-a-vis_, your next meeting with Hood."

Gisborne felt the muscles in his shoulders clench, "My lord, you..." He suppressed his frustration, pinching the top of his nose between his thumb and forefinger before continuing. "...You seem to be implying that my – my sacrifices so far do not constitute _fulfilling a promise_."

Vaisey raised his eyebrows with a small smirk, "Oh no, no no, you misunderstand me. But you can't possibly be foolish enough to think that your work is done?"

Gisborne shook his head irritably, avoiding the Sheriff's inquisitorial glare.

"Precisely my point. Now let's not tiptoe around the matter in hand, Gisborne. Much as your pride is no doubt gravely wounded by the events of last night, it isn't as though you hadn't _agreed _to take part in them. And the rewards we shall both reap from our success will be substantial. Hence: I am going to be blunt with you...if your fragile little heart can stand it?" Gold teeth glinted provokingly.

Gisborne turned away from the Sheriff, to prevent himself from rising to the bait. He folded his arms tightly across his chest, to prevent him reaching for his sword.

"Ah, Gisborne, I do enjoy these pleasant exchanges," Vaisey drawled, inspecting his fingernails briefly. "You must cheer up, my man, for it will all soon be over! Think of the satisfaction you will have then!" He grinned widely, but seeing that Gisborne's expression had not changed, continued with a sigh, "All you have to do is meet Robin Hood inside the castle vault tonight, at the time that you agreed. After that, the name of the game is: _distraction. _How you keep Hood occupied is up to you...but ensure that he doesn't get the chance to scurry away before my men and I have arrived. Think you can handle that, Gisborne?" he asked, tilting his head slightly and giving the other man a condescending smile.

Gisborne's heart tremored painfully at the thought of another meeting with Hood. Panic, more than anger or bitterness. Keep him distracted? Easy enough. He would simply engage the outlaw in a little sword combat, hoping to fend him off for the desired amount of time. But one thought tugged at him, gave him an ice cold sensation in the pit of his stomach. Hood was an accomplished fighter. _Very accomplished. _Gisborne had succumbed to him in combat countless times. If his sword-fighting skills failed him at the crucial moment, how else would he keep Hood in the vault?

He had an inkling. A decidedly unpleasant one.

And that is when Vaisey's words came back to him in a nauseating rush: _'How you keep Hood occupied is up to you...' _It _wasn't _really up to Gisborne at all. It had been decided for him, last night, when he fulfilled his duty by holding his arch enemy in a romantic embrace.

"I will complete the task that has been assigned to me, my Lord," was his answer, his tone of voice impenetrably free of emotion.

"Remember: if you have to kill him – all par for the course. I would much prefer a public, painful, humiliating, and graphically-bloody execution...but as we discussed before, now that Hood believes you are infatuated with him," the Sheriff couldn't disguise a gleeful smirk, "he will not expect your knife in his sickly hide! Either way, by the time the night is out, we will have ourselves a captured outlaw."

Gisborne nodded slowly, his sword-arm itching to grip cool, hard leather. He would certainly relish killing Hood. It would ease his discomfort, greatly.

...

Robin had not slept well. He had several lucid nightmares during the night, all featuring Gisborne in some manner or another. In one of them, Gisborne had raised a sword to him before forcing him to lay on the ground, his powerful frame crushing down on him, and ordering him, in a bloodcurdling voice, to...

Ugh. A nightmare, indeed. And one that would have never have occurred to Robin had he not been the mortified victim of Gisborne's warped affections the previous evening. The outlaw was still baffled by the man's revelation, and despite being highly sceptical that Gisborne had spoken the truth, could not erase the memory of that kiss: the sight of it, the feel of it, the taste...

He had spent the morning in a sort of stupefied daze, not speaking more than a handful of words to any of his companions, and going through the motions of his daily routine without really giving it an ounce of thought. He was focused solely on the endeavour he would have to undertake that night, in the vault of Nottingham castle. And, of course, the prospect of seeing Gisborne again. How would the man behave tonight? Would he be true to his word? Robin highly suspected _not. _But it was too perfect an opportunity to miss. He _had _to have those plans. The wellbeing of a significant number of Nottingham's residents relied upon it.

He would have to deal with Gisborne, should the need arise. Make the man realise, once and for all, that Robin's feelings towards him had not – and would _never –_ change, nor would he be any more forgiving. Gisborne was still his sworn enemy, after all. He hated him with all good reason. The man was sadistic, cruel, completely without pity, a coward, a glory-hunter, and, perhaps most importantly of all –

The sight of Marian's face flickered across his memory for an instant, and Robin's insides stirred. How would she react, if she knew that Gisborne was pursuing her, despite altogether very different inclinations? He would have no claim over her, after that. The thought made a small smile flicker across Robin's lips.

Robin gathered together his fellow men (and woman) some few hours before curfew that evening, in order to inform them of his plans. He knew they would object, but they had to understand: this mission was completely different to any other he had undertaken. How would he explain, without revealing his embarrassment of the night before? That would require a little improvisation...

"I know that none of you are particularly happy with the arrangement I have made with Gisborne. But my decision stands. I will meet him in the vault, alone, as agreed. I _have _to try – for the sake of those villages..."

"But Robin," Will began, a pleading note in his voice, "do you really believe you have _any _chance of succeeding tonight? It seems like an impossible hope. Gisborne will betray you – I would have thought that you would know that better than any of us." The others murmured in agreement, some of them avoiding Robin's eye completely.

"I might be wrong: but I thought that _all _of our ventures into the castle were pretty much destined to fail. That hasn't stopped us from being victorious, again and again and again." Robin shrugged, noticing that one or two of his companions raised their eyebrows in reluctant agreement.

"As you said, Robin – it is different this time," Much spoke out, his voice quaking a little. He so hated standing up to Robin – it went against his total admiration for the man. "You are not certain that the mission you are going to undertake even _exists_. Gisborne lied about those plans once; he could easily do it again. What if the worst happens: you are ambushed, alone, without any of your men to come to your aid, and are killed by Gisborne or the Sheriff's men without a single positive thing to show for it?"

Robin remained silent. All eyes were on him. He would not change his mind, but he admired his friends' concern and regard for him. He knew that they would not concede happily to this. But he _had _to try. To have the challenge laid before his feet, and not accept it, went against everything he stood for.

"I cannot neglect this opportunity," he eventually said, matter-of-factly. "This is who I am. Who I was, before I met any one of you. It is my destiny, to rescue the city of Nottingham from corruption and greed. And if this mission is my final sacrifice – so be it. I know that the rest of you are here, to carry on in my name."

The gang were not content with this. But they conceded, because they knew that Robin could not be persuaded otherwise. Their only request was that he allowed them to wait for his return, in the forest a little way from the city gates, so that they may still be able to help him in some way, if their worst fears were realised. If Robin didn't return with the charts within two hours, they would be allowed to infiltrate the castle and try to find him.

Evening fell, and the time for curfew came and went. Robin left his comrades in the outskirts of the forest, and went on to Nottingham alone, the dagger at his waist and the heavy bow at his shoulder a constant comfort. Time to submit himself to providence.

...

Robin stood firm, with legs spaced apart and arms braced into fists – a stance he often favoured, as it allowed for either a swift escape or an equally stealthy launch into violent attack. His bow felt heavy on his shoulder, as if it were pressing him into the mindset of attack, and his fingers itched to grasp it, to feel the cool rush of air against his cheek as he released an arrow into the skies. Reaching the castle had been easy – a little too easy, truth be told. But Robin was grateful to have made it this far without a mishap.

As the stale air of the dungeons began to filter through his lungs, he felt his anticipation heighten. The vault was mere metres away, door unlocked, plans placed temptingly within, and he couldn't escape the terrible, lingering feeling that there was only one escape route he could use. He was below ground – below the castle – and only one trapdoor separated him from possible discovery and capture. This also just so happened to be the escape route he had in mind. If Gisborne emerged at this very moment, he wouldn't want to risk making such an escape – but he wasn't entirely sure that he would be able to restrain himself from trying to kill the man instead, as his sense of enclosure engulfed him. The release of the arrow seemed essential to him: the only thing that would quell his impending fear.

"Well, well - right on time. What an anticlimax."

Robin wheeled round; he couldn't tell where the sound had come from, but never before had the tone of Gisborne's voice made every hair on his arms prickle.

"Where are you, Gisborne?" he snarled into the shadows, eyes darting from place to place like a spooked hare.

No reply.

"...Hold on –" Robin added, after a moment's thought, "– you _asked _me not to be late!"

Now Gisborne's laughter rang out ominously, echoing from the damp walls. Robin felt his stomach lurch.

"Yes, but I didn't expect you to be so predictable. Where is your usual element of surprise?"

"No games tonight. No tricks. I want those charts, and I'm not falling for any of your petty diversions this time."

"If you were diverted, Hood, then that was entirely _your _fault."

Gisborne materialised from shadow now, stepping out from an empty prison cell. Robin took a step back, the muscles in his back becoming taught. The other man seemed taller and more imposing in this enclosed space; he wasn't dressed in his usual black leather regalia, but was still clothed from head to toe in that macabre shade. He wore a black cotton tunic and thick black linen breeches, and his hair was tousled, falling in strands about his forehead and cheekbones. Robin narrowed his eyes at the smug expression that greeted him, and forced himself not to look at Gisborne's lips – the taste of them was still disturbingly memorable.

"You changed the rules overnight. How am I supposed to react rationally to something like that ludicrous speech you made?" Robin had not meant to sound so cruel, but he had been mulling over Gisborne's words for many hours now, and his suspicions had reached a pinnacle.

Gisborne frowned. Surely his performance had not been flawed to such an extent, that Hood was having doubts over the truth a mere half-day afterwards? He recuperated his confidence, and took several slow steps towards his nemesis, resolving himself to continue with the previous night's charade.

"Ludicrous? I hardly think the admission of my feelings to you was _ludicrous_, Hood," he muttered sullenly, pouting his mouth into a petulant frown. "Unless...you want me to rethink our little bargain?" he said softly, his smirk adding a slight sting to the delivery of the threat.

"You can't go back on your word now, Gisborne." Robin was ready with a comeback. "I could easily ensure that the..._encounter_ you forced upon me last night becomes public knowledge – in the city, in the court – and beyond. Who will respect you and revere you then, _Sir_, when they learn that you are a forceful seducer of outlaws?" Robin didn't have to elaborate. Gisborne would know that he meant to include Marian in this announcement.

"You _forest rat,_" Gisborne growled, lurching forward and grabbing Hood by the collar of his tunic. "How _dare _you threaten me?" His voice rose dangerously.

Robin squirmed in the man's violent grip. He had become too complacent: believing that, because of Gisborne's admission, he would be much more reasonable. How wrong he had been. Now he felt Gisborne's hand closing about his neck, and the point of a sword pressing uncomfortably into his ribs...

"You said you would hand over the charts for the dam..." Robin gasped, his words stinted by the pain of Gisborne's grip and the slow decrease of his air supply, "I have held up my side of the deal. Now you need to fulfil yours. Give them to me – and then I will be gone, and we can forget that last night ever happened. No one will have to find out..." He began to choke, his hands pressing urgently into Gisborne's stomach to try and force the other man to release his stranglehold.

Gisborne's dull eyes were searching the face of the outlaw as he struggled for breath. Much as he wanted to watch the outlaw panic, feel his strength gradually fail in his iron-fisted grip, he also wanted to ensure that this whole sordid exchange was over quickly, and cleanly. Therefore, watching Hood die at this precise moment would not be quite as satisfying as he would have hoped. It would be much more satisfying to wait until the ideal moment presented itself – when Hood had been convinced once and for all that Gisborne loved him, and found himself impaired by a sense of compassion.

He loosened his hold on Hood's neck, but kept his other hand clasped to the outlaw's shoulder, preventing from moving.

Robin gulped fresh air into his lungs, and allowed himself to be held to the wall, with no strength in his body for escape just yet.

"My reputation would be ruined if _anyone _found out, Hood – my life would not be worth living," Gisborne uttered, aware that he was stating the obvious. "You will see that I can honour an agreement. You will have your charts. But I must know that I can trust you to hold your tongue."

"You can hold faith, Gisborne. I would rather no one found out myself, to be honest."

"Swear to me..." Gisborne murmured. His head was bent close to Robin's, and he inhaled slowly, drawing his chest up close to the other man's. "Swear your loyalty. _Swear it..."_ His tone became insistent, and he drew his hand over Robin's shoulder, up over the bruises he had just inflicted on the outlaw's neck, and up through his hair. Grabbing hold at the back of his head, Gisborne held it in place, glaring deep into Robin's shock-widened eyes.

"I...I swear..." Robin mumbled nervously. He could feel Gisborne's breath on his face, and felt his pulse begin to quicken. Heat began to prickle beneath the surface of his skin.

"_Good_..." Gisborne whispered, drawing out the syllable so that the end of the word was muffled by the crushing contact of his lips and Robin's. He kissed the outlaw aggressively, seizing his head in his hands and grinding him roughly into the wall. The power, the control that the kiss allowed him sent a rich wash of satisfaction through him, even more so now that the act itself was less of a shock to his system. He could feel Hood's muscles tighten beneath his firm grip, and knew that the other man was tensed to the spot in sheer panic. The actual practice of kissing him was something that Gisborne didn't really have to think about any more; his movements seemed independent of his brain, and he found that his hands were tugging Hood's tunic upwards without him having planned anything of the sort. He didn't stop himself – this sudden improvisation seemed to be helping matters. In trying to halt Gisborne's movements by raising his arms, Hood made the semi-removal of his clothes all the easier.

"Nnnnhhh..." Robin protested, his exact words muffled by Gisborne's mouth. He felt the swift rush of cold air to his stomach and experienced a strange lurching under the skin, his muscles retracting with discomfort. In the process of trying to prevent his physical assault, his tunic slipped past his collarbone, exposing his whole torso, which he wasn't entirely comfortable with. He was used to Gisborne's kisses by now, for good or ill, but having his clothing removed against his will was something he had never really been willing to consent to. He knew that in this particular confrontation, Gisborne had the physical upper hand; he was the more muscular of the both of them, and had taken Robin by surprise, leaving him without enough time to react. He knew he had been overpowered, and that, without any form of distraction, Gisborne would be likely to get whatever it was he was after at this point. This concerned him greatly. He had already made a promise to the man that went against all of his morals, but to find himself at Gisborne's mercy in other ways was too much for him to stand.

The contact of their lips broke, and Robin gasped for air – but no sooner had he inhaled the free air into his lungs, than he felt the rough tugging of fabric over his neck as his tunic was completely removed. Gisborne tossed aside the limp linen smock as if it were a beggar's rag, and placed his hands firmly over Robin's upper arms, pinning him to the wall once more. The outlaw's skin felt surprising beneath Gisborne's fingertips – smooth, like sun-warmed stone. Gisborne was unable to forget, however, that the muscles of a formidable fighter were lurking only a little way underneath the surface.

"Now you see if I'm incapable of following through," he snarled, seizing Robin's mouth in another forceful kiss.

Robin was too overwhelmed by this unrelenting assault to analyse Gisborne's words too clearly – but even without the full capability of his thoughts, something about the man's statement rang alarm bells in his head.

Little did he know just how much Gisborne had endangered his plan with that one, simple statement. Good job both their mouths were too busy to do anything about it.

Gisborne had found a new way to endure this latest embrace. He imagined that, for each second that the kiss endured, another outpouring of his malice, hate and disgust was wending its way into his enemy's body – as if he could transfer his loathing, like a poison, from his lips, tongue and saliva to Hood's. It was immensely reassuring. He imagined that each contorted spasm of Hood's body was an adverse reaction to the toxic substances emanating from the contact of Gisborne's skin against his. It was cathartic holding the wirier body beneath his own, as if his noxious touch would cause the outlaw's body to decay and disintegrate into the stone walls. Perhaps, if their clinch lasted long enough, he would have these fantasies realised. He was almost curious to find out.

Robin felt stifled, almost strangled, though his airways were clear. He felt as if the mere contact that he and Gisborne were sharing was enough to debilitate him completely – as if the man were forcing the life from him, instead of doing all that was necessary to set his nerves alight. He could not deny – the sensations and movements were sickeningly arousing – his body reacted to them physically in the way they usually would, no matter who was performing such acts upon him, and he couldn't prevent this. Only his brain, and his mouth, emitted any kind of protestation; he tried his best to yell as many obscenities at Gisborne as possible while he had the space to breathe, whilst his mind lost its usual control at the mortifying reality of what was unfolding between them.

Gisborne, too, found himself under a strange sort of spell as their suffocating bind continued. Feeling Hood's physical reaction to his movements provoked a similar reaction in him; his own arousal developed almost as quickly. And because his mind was completely elsewhere, dwelling in some unnameable place far beyond his usual consciousness, he found himself power-drunk, his arousal and the outlaw's inciting him to exaggerate his carnal ministrations. It was as if the two men, in this moment, were not of the present world: as if they had found themselves a crack in the fabric of time, within which anything could happen, and all rules were broken. Everything around them ceased to matter, and both their minds were seized in a white-hot furnace, causing their vision to blur, and their senses to become a hedonistic, blood-stirring void...

The curse was temporarily broken when Gisborne took a foolish risk; he lifted his hands from Robin's motionless arms, and moved them to clutch at his hips. The temptation was too great; the man felt completely without fear or constraint. And so he slid his hand between their rutting bodies, and chafed it unashamedly against the protruding tent-pole in Hood's breeches...

Robin snapped from the intoxicating trance as if he had been doused in cold water; the guttural moan escaping his throat was mangled; a confusion between intense pleasure and deep revulsion. Realising for the first time that his arms were now freed, and with the precision of a cornered animal, Robin swiped out with his left fist and caught Gisborne squarely in the juncture between his collarbone and neck. The impact wasn't enough to shatter bone, but the cry of alarm elicited from Gisborne's lips was enough for Robin to know that suitable damage had been done. The other man stumbled backwards slightly, but righted himself with reasonable ease. Robin saw the steely sheen return to his eyes, but couldn't react quickly enough to prevent himself from being pinned to the wall once more. Gisborne's thumbs pressed agonisingly into the fragile skin just above his chest; Robin could almost feel his fingernails breaking the skin.

Luckily for Robin, Gisborne was too shocked – or too exhausted from the previous physical exertion – to speak, or attack him further. He could only glare murderously at the man he hated, his breath escaping him in sharp bursts. So the outlaw spoke out, his voice hoarse from shouting and fighting for breath, so that the words raked at his throat. He tried to ignore what had just occurred between them – already, now that it was over, it felt like a startling delusion.

"Gisborne, these feelings of yours – they can't be real. I can't accept it." He stared the other man down, forcing him to respond, showing that he wouldn't say another word or make another move until he had the truth.

Gisborne swallowed down the pain that Hood's punch had caused. Unlike the outlaw, he couldn't erase the memory of the bewildering clinch they had just shared – it was almost branded into his mind. "Perhaps you should start perfecting your ability to accept the _truth_, Hood," came his response. He would not back down.

"But – I don't understand it. All our lives you have only spoken of me in terms of _hate_. Now in love? Where did the distinction come?"

Gisborne snorted, sweeping a lock of hair from before his eyes that was damp with perspiration. "Not everything is easily explained in your layman's terms. I only know that what I have confessed to you is absolutely indisputable. You may not believe me, but I can only do all in my power to convince you." He forced himself to soften his grip on the outlaw's arms slightly, even allowed them to slide down slightly, in a sort of 'caressing' motion...

Robin panicked, sensing what was about to happen. "No – Gisborne. You don't have to convince me. I understand. You're telling the truth. Just don't –" he rambled hastily, squirming slightly in an effort to free himself.

"What else can I do, Hood? I _need_ you. And soon enough you will realise: you need me too. You will crave me after this is over..."

He summoned all his remaining resolve and swept Hood down onto the stone floor in one swift motion. The outlaw's head made a delicious crack against the slate, and he groaned, his face contorting into an expression of pain and fear. He tried to turn himself, to roll out of harm's way, for his legs had failed him, but before he could move, Gisborne was above him, his knees placed either side of his waist.

Robin felt his head swimming as their pelvic bones made a crushing, mortifying contact, and he knew it was all over, that there was no way of fighting this, no way of escaping. Gisborne would have his way: another trophy to add to his burgeoning collection. This time, however, it was different. This trophy couldn't be stolen away, couldn't be valued in terms of money. Nothing would compensate Robin for the singular shame and repulsion of this experience. But if it was Gisborne's sole stipulation in return for the charts, so be it...

Robin averted his eyes from the looming figure of the man clad in black, and focused them on the charts, laying on a tabletop just metres away. _'The people, Robin. The people need you. They...'_

"Ahh...no..." Robin moaned, his protestations half-pleasure, half-panic, as he felt that sickeningly-familiar touch everywhere, everywhere it shouldn't have been. And Gisborne's rich, macabre laughter, echoing around the walls as he loomed in closer...

"Hurry up! Hurry up you idiots! What do I pay you for – to stumble around like docile apes?"

With a dagger-point of fear impaling his heart, Gisborne heard a voice approaching. The Sheriff! Had the time elapsed so quickly? Without a second thought to the man he was supposed to be detaining, he leapt to his feet, glancing down at himself and wondering if his sin of passion was visible upon him. His sword was out of its scabbard and raised in front of him; the other hand felt curiously empty. What else did he need?

And then he remembered.

Before he could react, he saw the glint of metal. Hood's dagger, pointed squarely between his ribs. The outlaw recovered fast.

"Now, Hood, don't do anything..."

"_GISBORNE_!" The Sheriff's voice, booming through the stone vault, the man himself frozen in a state of frenzy on the stairs below the trapdoor, half a dozen guards shifting uneasily behind him.

Robin saw the familiar face – the only other man to haunt his dreams. Vaisey was the embodiment of everything he hated; only more so than Gisborne because it was the Sheriff who had first employed and trained the man-in-black to be the merciless assassin he was today. As soon as he saw the veiled glint in Vaisey's eye, he suspected. _'Not the infatuation of one man, but the scheming of _two_.'_

He was distracted. The arrival of Vaisey had thrown him off. A second's hesitation was all it took for Gisborne to re-gain the upper hand.

Robin grunted as the wind was knocked from his lungs. Gisborne had gripped him by the shoulder, lurched and thrown him into the wall. In the blink of an eye, his sword-tip was forcing itself, with increasing pressure, against the tender skin shielding Robin's heart. Without a tunic to cushion the weight, Robin felt the sharp nick of pain as the blade drew a drop or two of blood.

"What are you waiting for, man? Do it!" Vaisey ordered, hopping slightly on the spot. His showy public execution forgotten, and his blood-lust raging in his throat, his chest and his stomach, all Vaisey cared about now was death. Why not let Gisborne be the man to do it? Seeing Hood's tunic discarded on the floor, he knew that his lieutenant had probably suffered enough.

Despite everything, despite all his body had told him and all the panic-stricken warnings in his brain, Robin had not been fooled into believing that Gisborne loved him. He couldn't avoid the disturbing events that had just unfolded between them, and he knew that it meant a monumental shift in their dynamic – but not love. Never love. And now, as he studied the murderous fury in Gisborne's eyes, the world began to tick onward painstakingly-slowly, as if his senses had been heightened beyond the usual human capability. He knew, before the man even lifted his blade, that Gisborne would not shy away from killing him, despite how close he had come to forcefully taking him. And that is why he was able to duck out of harm's way, just as Gisborne made to plunge his blade into his enemy's heart.

Vaisey gave an anguished cry like a wounded animal, as Gisborne's forceful sword-thrust created sparks from the stone wall which Robin had just been pressed against. Gisborne made a similarly animalistic sound, almost like a throaty growl, and wheeled round, his adrenaline high, ready for pursuit. But Robin had already disappeared without trace. And so had the charts for the dam.

"He's still in the vault! There's only one way out! Find him you brainless oafs!" Vaisey's voice was an irrational shriek, and his men rallied clumsily, intimidated by the violent temporary-insanity of their leader. They swarmed through the vault, charging into each empty cell in turn, their armour overwhelmingly noisy in the small space. Vaisey was a man possessed; he in turn sprinted around the stone-walled cellar, searching for Hood with just as much zeal as his men, despite being unarmed.

Gisborne, on the other hand, felt completely rational, his mind refreshingly clear for the first time in a long while. He knew where he had to be, at that precise moment. No one was guarding the trapdoor: the only route by which Hood could escape. He had already managed to elude half a dozen men in such a small, claustrophobic space, and Gisborne made his way hurriedly towards the stairs, knowing that he could slip away and be out of Nottingham with the stealth and silence of a shadow. Once in the prime position, he wheeled round slowly, his sword pointed in front of him in case of an ambush. All the while, torturous thoughts of his misjudgement and misfortune played on his mind; he couldn't escape the shame of being so close to achieving his ultimate triumph, and letting his quarry flee from his clutches.

And then he felt a small rush of air behind him, barely noticeable, and heard the voice in his ear as if it had travelled across the winds from miles away.

"I knew that you didn't have the gall to kill me.

"Maybe your own charade has gotten the better of you. Maybe you are starting to believe it yourself. Tut tut, what would Vaisey say?"

Gisborne couldn't move. The words had paralysed him to the spot. He was enraged at Hood for taunting him, daring to incite his anger when it would be all too easy to impale him upon the end of his blade. But it was the words themselves, more than the audacity of the action, that affected him so. Because he couldn't find any words of argument. And he wasn't entirely sure if he could believe his own denial of Hood's claims, in any case. But a thought did occur to him. He spoke from the corner of his mouth, voice very serene and quiet, because he had to speak his mind before alerting the guards to Hood's location.

"I could point out the same to you. You could have killed me as soon as you saw me here, alone and not on the offensive, with the charts in arm's reach. But you didn't take up that opportunity. Until just a few moments ago, you seemed a little too..._distracted..._"

Gisborne turned, triumph in his eyes, opening his mouth wider to shout for aid – but Hood was already gone. He heard the thud of the trapdoor closing before he could even gather his wits.

Vaisey came jogging up beside him, short of breath. Gisborne didn't have to look at him. He knew what was coming.

"_THAT...WRETCH...ESCAPED!"_

Gisborne could hear the man flustering beside him, spluttering for adequate words to voice his obscene rage. After a few seconds, he seemed to regain his composure, and his voice was a little steadier. But Gisborne couldn't relax. He braced himself for the worst, as one always does in the calm before the storm.

"Oh, there will be retribution for this Gisborne, mark my words. It will come swiftly, it will come silently, and _BY HELL AND SCORCHED BRIMSTONE I WILL _–"

Gisborne sighed in exasperation. Not the first mistake he had made tonight, but by far the riskiest.

He felt Vaisey take hold of him by his jaw and pull his head around to face him. Staring into the Sheriff's beguilingly-cruel eyes, he felt utterly powerless.

"Do not believe that I reserve my revenge for Hood alone, my dear lieutenant Gisborne." The Sheriff's voice was acidically-charming. "You shall certainly pay for disappointing me..._again. _This plan should not have failed. Only an incompetent _MORON _could have been presented with an opportunity like this and not have achieved positive results. You will report to me tomorrow morning, in front of the Council, and I will–"

Gisborne couldn't stand it any longer; he wrenched himself from Vaisey's grip and charged tempestuously up the stairs and out of the vault. It was only when he had rounded the corner of the landing which led to his own quarters that he dared to break into a run; but by then, it was clear that no one would try to stop him. Once in the sanctuary of his own rooms, he felt the air thicken and turn to mud all around him, his vision and hearing failed him and his stomach lurched violently as he began to lose control of his legs, fell surging to the ground, and everything turned black.

...

"Come on then Robin!"

"No need to be so tense!"

"Let's get a look at these charts and then toss them onto the fire where they belong!"

Robin's band were in understandably high spirits. They hadn't been so callous as to ignore the obvious change in Robin's demeanour; the tremble in his step or the vacant look in his eyes. They had all apologised many times over for allowing him to carry out the mission alone, when it had clearly been a dangerous one. But Robin had made no reply, and refused to go into details about what had happened. They knew better than to press matters, and had tried to cheer him instead by urging him to open up the charts.

Robin could barely breathe, let alone speak. The exertion of the fight – as well as other things – had sapped his energy, but there were far weightier things pressing on his mind. Specifically, the implications of Gisborne's final words to him before he had fled the castle. Try as he might, no matter how deeply he searched inside himself, he couldn't find a rational excuse for what he had almost allowed to happen.

At least he had been willing to make a sacrifice for the good of the people. And his friends were right: the sight of the charts would certainly ease his spirits, if only by a small amount.

He rolled out the sheets of parchment across the leafy forest floor, making a slight shooing motion with his free hand so that the gathered group wouldn't get stand on them or stain them with mud accidentally.

When the parchment was rolled out completely, Robin lent back to survey the full sight of them.

What he saw made every inch of him become ice cold.

"Fake? The bloody things are _fake?" _John cried out, tearing at his hair. He was the only member of the gang able to speak.

Robin's mind reeled. This was entirely unprecedented – but he cursed himself inwardly for not being able to see through the plot. He had known for quite some time – subconsciously, at least – that Gisborne and the Sheriff had hoped to succeed in his capture, or his murder, by tricking him into believing that Gisborne was infatuated with him and wished to seduce him...but for no ultimate purpose? Not to achieve the higher means of manipulating the people of Nottingham, or the fellow Council nobles? Just for the satisfaction of causing Robin to abandon his hatred of his most sworn enemy, in order to prove his fallibility once and for all? Robin couldn't accept it. He almost couldn't bear to except that _anyone _could be so twisted and appallingly ruthless. But it seemed that Vaisey _was_, and was more than willing to use Gisborne as a pawn in his latest sordid ploy.

It seemed that neither of them had counted on Gisborne becoming quite so immersed in his latest role, however.

Robin needed air, despite being completely in the open. The sight of the bogus charts, the eyes of his friends upon him, the voices gently urging him to react, were all too much for him to endure at the present moment. He stood abruptly, with a silent raising of his hand to signify that no one was to follow him, and stalked hurriedly off into the deeper forest, feeling a compelling need to walk. Walk, and walk for hours, even days, if he had to – to align the bewildering thoughts in his mind in a way which made them at all simpler to understand. He was completely aware that the memories of Locksley Manor, and of the vault, would not disappear or even fade easily. But this small opportunity for time alone would give him a renewed perspective. Already, his thoughts for Gisborne were changing. At first, all he wanted to do was purge the memory of the man from his body. But now, he was beginning to feel pity, knowing that the man had been – and always would be – Vaisey's plaything, bound to obey whatever command the Sheriff asked of him, so long as he wished to remain in the position of power he had so immorally acquired.

Indeed, at that moment, and for all moments to follow, his hatred for the Sheriff of Nottingham would only thrive – thrive upon the memory of the vault, and the unwelcome, new emotions that it had unwittingly stirred.


End file.
